Page 148 of The Rut in the Road

“Yes or no, Raj,” I whispered.

He closed his eyes, and my chest ached at the sight of the tears that slid out of them. “I—I don’t know if I can.”

I deliberately pulled every ounce of magic I had as deep within my stomach as I could. Holding it. Refusing to let it spill out. I couldn’t manage the same for my own tears. “Then I don’t know if I can, either,” I managed to say, although my voice shook and my heart felt like it shuddered in my chest.

“Rayn—” The sound was a half-sob.

I pulled my hand back, gently. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“I love you,” he said, his voice raw and hollow.

I looked at him. “Not if you don’t trust me,” I countered.

“Let me try,” he begged. His face was open. Raw. Desperate.

I wanted to say yes.

So badly.

“You don’ttry,” I said, the words strangling me. “You do or you don’t.” It was so hard to say. But I had to say it. “And you don’t.”

28

He hatedthat they paid him to clean up their messes. He didn’t know what this poor fucker had done—or not done—to get offed by the Delorios, but it didn’t matter now.

I was shockedat how easily I could still shut it off. At how I was able to keep functioning despite my heart being broken.

I looked up at Detective Maza. “The victim was killed by the Delorios,” I told him, my voice flat and emotionless. “The thoughts came from someone they hired to dispose of the body.”

He nodded. “Thanks, Rayn. You’ll testify to this?”

I jerked my head in a single nod. “Of course, if you need me to.” I didn’t want to, but if that’s what was required, I would do it.

Maza shook my hand, then left, pulling the oil drum on its small cart with him.

I went back to my desk and stared blankly at the computer screen, unable to do anything that someone didn’t directly tell me to do.

I thought I’d understood what it meant to feel hopeless.

I mean—I did. I’d spent fourteen years in an asylum with no expectation of ever leaving it. But now I’d made the awful discovery that hopelessness after hope was far worse.

I’d had Raj. Someone who cared about me. Taken care of me.

And now I didn’t.

As wasteful as it was, I’d thrown out dinner after he left. I couldn’t bear to even think about eating it—definitely not right then, and not ever. I’d scrubbed the kitchen and lit candles I wasn’t supposed to have in the apartment to burn the smell of it out of the air.

Because I hadn’t meant to break up with him when I’d asked him to come over.

But then I had.

Maybe it was because I didn’t love him, although I was pretty sure I did. Maybe I just didn’t love him enough. Maybe I couldn’t ever love anyone, not really. Because I wasn’t willing to give up myself for them. For him.

I wanted him to love me forme. To believe in me. To trust me.

And now I was sitting at work, almost three weeks later, my whole body still screaming from the inside.

I had no idea how I was going to handle this.